Dennis Lange Poems

My grand granddaughter sleeps a lot;
She's waking to the world
Like Rip Van Winkle must have stretched
When consciousness was swirled.
...

The sun has risen, giving day a spark;
The river flows within the verdant park.
The channeled water turns the paddle wheel;
It is too early for a church bell's peal.
...

A silent, speeding, shooting star
Flashed 'cross the night sky's dark;
Then gone, except it etched within
My memory a mark.
...

There is within a rising up
That soon would burst and flood,
Unless it flows, and quickly flows
Like life's own precious blood.
...

On hill I perch, and look across -
A creek runs down below.
It's hidden by the houses built,
By trees that upward grow.
...

A drip of water from the tap
Is born, begins its drop
And leaves behind its mother's lap
Until the sea - then, stop.
...

Upon the far horizon, Day
Sat down, his feet to rest.
He'll stand the morrow without pay,
A servant, not a guest.
...

A cloudy curtain's drawn across the skies,
As thin as veil that hides a maiden's eyes;
A milky cataract that dims the sight
Not of the moon, but mine into the night.
...

I hate a confrontation;
I hate an intervention;
I hate the storm of feelings
And the lightning in the fray.
...

Hope is the distant moon that tugs the ocean's tender heart,
That draws the tides to swell the shore with skill of Siren's art.
Once it's removed, it brings release; the tides go back to sea,
And all that's left upon the shore is scattered, sad debris.
...